


Of Pride, Piercings, and a Particularly Profound Prurient Proficiency

by tarie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 08:00:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1850479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarie/pseuds/tarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While the trio's off hunting Horcruxes, back at Hogwarts things are grim. With most of the students looking to Neville for guidance, Seamus knows his friend can use all the support he can get.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Pride, Piercings, and a Particularly Profound Prurient Proficiency

~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~

  
  
_dead has a smile like the nicest man you've never met_  
  
From somewhere, somehow, someday the line pops into his head, but Seamus doesn’t have time to think on it. Hot on his heels is one of the Carrows – the tubbier one, the bint who shrieks about Muggles being magic thieves – and he can’t afford to do anydamnedthing but  _run_.  
  
So Seamus runs. He’s short and stocky but fast. Years of playing footie with Dean in the dorm and out by the lake are to his advantage; he cuts corners left and right as if on a Knut, narrowly avoiding the spells shooting out of Carrow’s wand as the savage cow cries, “ _Crucio_!  _Crucio_!”   
  
She can’t keep up with him and so, when he finally loses her, Seamus raises both arms in triumph, a victorious shout of, “Fuck yeah!” echoing the south-most tower.  
  
“Shhh!”   
  
The sound startles Seamus, and he whirls around in time just to make out a set of hazel eyes before a hand clamps down on his forearm and drags him into circular, stone room. A door slams behind him and Seamus has to squint in the dim light to see who nabbed him.   
  
“Fucking hell, Neville! Ya coulda—”  
  
“What’d you do, Seamus?” Neville cuts him off, fingers fisting into Seamus’ shirt.   
  
Neville looks right cross, but he doesn’t care a whit about it. Adrenaline still pumping madly through his frame, Seamus smiles a sly smile. “Doesn’t matter, does it? She didn’t catch me.” Laughing, Seamus snakes a hand up between them, palm settling flat on Neville’s chest. Applying the slightest hint of pressure, the smile fades a little. Aye, but Neville is looking crosser and crosser by the minute. “Shove off, eh? It was all a bit of a lark.”  
  
“What’d you  _do_ , Seamus?” Neville repeats, his mouth twisting in a way that would have looked more menacing on anyone else but simply came off as disappointed on the likes of him.  
  
There aren’t many Gryffindors left and Seamus can’t stand to see one of his own looking at him like that, like he’d let them down.  
  
“I wrote  _Dumbledore’s Army Lives_  on her door,” Seamus informs one of Neville’s shoulders, fingers slackening against Neville’s jumper.  
  
“Oh, Seamus,” Neville says, a brief smile flashing and fading sadly. “You know we’re stopping that.”  
  
 _who maybe winks at you in a streetcar and you pretend  
you don't but really you do see_  
  
“I know.” Seamus’ voice is faint, his mind drifting to another line that has surfaced, unbidden.   
  
Death Eaters and Dementors all about the castle, all just waiting to strike against anyone opposing the Carrows and, by extension, You-Know-Who. Many students pretend not to see them, pretend not to  _notice_ , but Seamus does. Seamus notices and Neville notices and the remaining Gryffindors and Dumbledore’s Army notice.   
  
“I just wanted to feel useful again. That’s all.” Harry and Ron and Hermione are somewhere, doing something hopefully fucking important. Dean’s on the run for his fucking life. And Seamus doesn’t feel like he’s helping any of them here.   
  
“You are useful.” Neville sighs, dropping his hands. He tries to push the hair out of his eyes and fails; it’s so long now that it won’t stay behind his ears without a good sticking charm.  
  
“Doesn’t feel that way most days.”   
  
This fierce sort of light makes its way into Neville’s eyes, and Seamus almost feels as though the fierceness is burning right through him when Neville stares him down. “You are,” he says firmly. “And you’ll see. Harry’ll come back and we’re going to help him, you and me and anyone else who can, and we’re going to sort all this out and take Hogwarts back.”  
  
It’s getting far too serious, far too fast in the little room. All this talk of Harry and You-Know-Who and Hogwarts is like a huge weight pressing down on his chest, taking all the air out of the room and his lungs, and Seamus can’t take it.   
  
“Keep talking like that and you’re liable ta get good and fucking snogged, ya beast,” he says after a beat, waggling his brows. That sort of shit always got a laugh out of Dean, always diverted the two of them from gettin’ too serious, be it serious during talkin’ or fightin’. Dean would laugh, Seamus would laugh, they’d cuff each other on the shoulders, and then they’d have a butterbeer and joke off the steam.  
  
But Neville doesn’t laugh nor does he cuff Seamus on the shoulder or toss a joke back.   
  
Neville isn’t Dean, not by a long shot.  
  
His mouth gapes open slightly and then it scrunches up, like he’s trying to stop himself from making some sort of weird noise. Seamus can see his fingers flexing open and closed. It’s a long while before Neville exhales slowly, shoulders rising rising falling.  
  
“I’ll go first. Count to ten after I’m gone and then leave,” he says shortly. The door slams heavily shut behind him and Seamus wonders what the hell just happened.  
  


~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~

  
  
Three days pass.  
  
Seamus has been skiving off class, holing up in the dorm. From what the others have been telling him, Carrow’s been yowling for his hide but McGonagall’s been holding her off at the pass.   
  
He’s been spending his time reading, checking his coin (to no avail), and trying to find the next episode of Potterwatch on the wireless. It’s been two weeks since he last caught a broadcast, but Seamus is pretty sure he knows the password -  _Phoenix_.  
  
Tapping the wireless with his wand, Seamus mutters, “Phoenix” under his breath over and over until he hears Lee Jordan’s familiar voice.   
  
“…with regret we inform our listeners of the deaths of the Muggle children reported last week were indeed the work of Death Eaters, as previously suspected. Finally, we must report the capture of Augusta Longbottom of Blackpool early yesterday morning. The Order of the Phoenix informs us that her home showed signs of struggle and—”  
  
“Gran?”  
  
Seamus had his ear pressed so tightly to the wireless that he didn’t hear anyone come in. Sitting up with a start, he craned his neck to catch sight of Neville.  
  
“Neville?” Seamus asks tentatively, able to tell by the color draining from Neville’s face that Augusta Longbottom was indeed Neville’s gran.  
  
“I was coming to get Trevor so we could listen to the show in the common room with Lavender and I—”  
  
Fuck, but Neville looks peaky.   
  
After clicking off the wireless, Seamus shoots up to tuck an arm around Neville and helps him over to Ron’s empty four-poster.  
  
“There ya go. Easy, easy,” Seamus murmurs, lowering Neville’s bulkier frame onto the deep red duvet.  
  
“They took my gran!” Neville says loudly, eyes round as saucers.  
  
“They did.” Seamus nods, crawling up beside Neville.   
  
Neither of them says a peep for what could be minutes or thirty-seven hours of fucking painful silence. What the hell does a bloke say to another who’s learnt his family’s been nicked by evil bastards?  
  
Seamus can’t think of shit, save for the times he’s seen Neville and his gran at King’s Cross. Right severe-looking woman, even if she is old and little. Personally, Seamus wouldn’t want to ever meet her in a back alley. She could likely kill a bloke with those wee beady vulture eyes. Not that Neville wanted to hear about any of this, of course. It wouldn’t cheer him up, that’s for damned sure.  
  
“She can hold her own, yeah?” he says finally, staring hard at Neville’s profile.  
  
“Yeah.” Neville’s voice is quiet, strained. “She can.” A beat, and then he repeats himself, shoulders squaring. “She can.”  
  
“She’s a Longbottom.” He may be pointing out the obvious, but Seamus thinks it bears saying all the same. Since the beginning of the school term, Neville’s been the leader, stepping up in Harry’s absence. He’s the one who organized the resistance. He’s the one who started looking out for the younger students. He’s the one who started standing up to the bastard Death Eaters masquerading as teachers. He’s the one Seamus has been looking up to. Although it might have seemed like Neville transformed into this leader sort overnight, Seamus knew better. He’d always had it in him; he’d just needed for his potential to sort itself out and show itself. And through Seamus’ line of reasoning, the sort of person Neville became has to be genetic.   
  
“She is,” Neville says thickly. He swallows so hard that Seamus can see his Adam’s apple working. Then the damnedest thing happens: Neville smiles.   
  
Neville smiles and twists toward Seamus. “Thanks,” he says gratefully.  
  
Scratching his head, Seamus shoots him a confused look, furrowed brows and all. “What did I do?”  
  
The question earns Seamus a sheepish grin. “Nothing.” There’s the shake of a shaggy head and then the smile’s gone. “Forget about it.”  
  
Lips purse and Seamus scoots closer to Neville, head tilted just so, eyes boring into Neville’s. “Not happenin’, mate. Spill.”  
  
The mattress groans as Neville leans back, putting some distance between them. Colour blooms in his cheeks. “’s nothing.”  
  
“No, it’s not.” One thing Seamus can’t stand is avoidance and he’s  _not_  going to stand for it now, not when Neville’s practically one of the only fucking things he has left around here. “Tell me,” he grounds out through gritted teeth, leaning in toward Neville. It’s probably irrational how quickly a silly thing like Neville not wanting to specify what he was thanking him for got under Seamus’ skin, but Seamus isn’t exactly known for being rational round the clock.  
  
“Seamus--” Neville protests, trying to push himself toward the foot of the bed but failing. His palms lose friction against the slippery fabric and he falls heavily atop the duvet.  
  
“C’mon,” Seamus grunts, crawling atop Neville. His muscular thighs straddle Neville’s, effectively pinning him to the bed. “Fess up, Longbottom.”  
  
Letting out a ragged breath, all Neville does is stare up at Seamus with big eyes and a downturned mouth.   
  
Something sparks inside Seamus just then, propels him into action. Fingertips grab handfuls of shirt and bodies are hauled upright and close and together and then. And  _then_.  
  
It’s sloppy and unexpected and noses bump together as breath is stolen as if carried away by the starving wind. It’s unpractised, teeth clacking together, aim off more often than occasionally. It’s hands shoving under jumpers and fingers carding through hair. It’s  _oh_  and  _ah_  and a thousand  _wants_  and mores rolled up into one and all. It’s wishing and wanting to have it all but not knowing how the merry fuck to ask because it’s all so new and it might be never again. It’s  _need to breathe_  and--  
  
Neville gasps, sucking in a huge gulp of air.  
  
 _Fuck, yeah_ , Seamus thinks, at the same time unnerved by how kind-of-possible-right that had all just felt. Tugging down the hem of his shirt, Seamus doesn’t miss how Neville’s staring at him – like he’s seeing Seamus for the first time.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You made me remember how proud I am to be a Longbottom, that’s all,” Neville whispers through kiss-swollen lips.   
  
Ducking his head a little, Seamus smiles. Pride can carry a man far and they both know there will be miles to go before they can ever rest.  
  


~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~

  
  
Aye, but Neville’s had a hell of a day. It started out none too shabbily, Seamus thinks. Over porridge that morning during breakfast, an owl brought post from Neville’s gran. The moment he saw the handwriting, Neville tugged on Seamus’ sleeve and the boys took off for Gryffindor so they could read her letter in peace. It wasn’t long before they were howling with laughter, imagining her hexing that Dawlish bloke and zooming off on his broom.   
  
The news definitely made up for the lashings the lot of them took the day before, Neville for refusing to perform the Cruciatus Curse on two Ravenclaw third years who’d earned detention and Seamus for smarting off to Amycus Carrow in Dark Arts. In fact, Seamus plum forgot about his black eye and the gash in Neville’s cheek until Lavender had pointed the bruises out over crap shepherd’s pie at dinner that night.  
  
After the fantastic post from Gran, they’d gone on to Muggle Studies, which was a fucking oxymoron if Seamus ever heard one. They didn’t so much  _study_  about the Muggles as they did learn how horrid Muggles were and how they had to be hunted and put down like the dirty, thieving foxes they were. Alecto was in rare form today, blathering on about this evil Muggle and that one until Neville burst out with, “How much Muggle blood have you and your brother got, huh?” The first two or three syllables had barely passed Neville’s lips before Seamus groaned; he knew what was coming and he’d been right. With a flick of her wand, Alecto cut a large, jagged gash across Neville’s cheek, screeching about the purity of blood. Seamus hopped into action the moment red began to spread across Neville’s face.  
  
“C’mon,” he grunted, leaping out of his chair. Fingers curling around Neville’s wrist like a vice fucking grip, Seamus hauled him out of the room before Carrow could do any more damage.  
  
That had been literally minutes ago. Now they’re back in the dorm, sitting on Neville’s bed with the curtains drawn.   
  
“Lemme have a look, will ya?” Seamus gripes, reaching for him.   
  
A hand clapped to his cheek, Neville juts his chin out in a damned stubborn sort of way that does nothing but piss Seamus off. “It’s nothing,” Neville insists.  
  
Seamus snorts. “Fucking liar, you are. I know you’re gonna wear that like a badge of courage later, but lemme have a look.”  
  
“No.” To anyone else’s eyes, it would have been imperceptible, but Seamus knows Neville pretty fucking well by all accounts now. He doesn’t miss the tiny shake of the head. And, really, the head shake rattles his ire more than the actual ‘no’ does.   
  
“Stop being a fucking hero,” Seamus snaps, lunging toward him. “Let me  _see_!”  
  
“’m not a hero,” Neville protests, waving his hands. Seamus winces at the hurt tone in his voice, like Neville had taken his comment as though Seamus as taking the piss on him.   
  
“I didn’t mean it that way.” Relenting, Seamus collapses back on his haunches, unable to look at him.  
  
The removal of Neville’s hand from his cheek is the only response Seamus gets. It’s fucking powerful enough.   
  
“Jesus, Mary, n’ Joseph,” Seamus breathes, taking in the severity of the wound. “Neville, we’ve got ta get ya ta see Madam Pomfrey. ‘m crap at Healing Charms or I’d fix you up right quick.”  
  
Wordlessly, Neville shakes his head again. Seamus doesn’t have to ask why. He already knows.  
  
The Carrow bastards and the other ‘professors’ take it out on Madam Pomfrey if she gets caught healing a student who ‘got what they deserved’. Neither boy wants to be responsible for kindly old Pomfrey getting tortured for doing her bleeding  _job_.   
  
“All right then,” Seamus bristles, making a decision for the both of them. “I’ll patch you up as best I can.” Neville starts to thank him but Seamus holds up his hand, effectively cutting him off. “Don’t thank me ‘til we’re through. Might end up accidentally removing an eyeball or summat.” The brief smile he flashes Neville shows he’s just kidding. Mostly.  
  
With a little bit of finesse and a whole lot of luck, Seamus manages to clean the wound, taking care to wipe away the dried blood beginning to cake on Neville’s cheek. When all the gore and grim is gone, Seamus Summons some gauze and Spellotape, figuring Pomfrey won’t miss the supplies from her lot. After covering the wound, Seamus lightly slaps Neville’s cheek below the plaster, deeming him, “Practically good as fucking new!”  
  
Working his jaw from side to side, Neville winces a tiny bit. “Thanks,” he says, and follows that up with an apologetic, “It stings a bit.”  
  
Banishing a water basin, cloth, and the things he’d ‘borrowed’ from Pomfrey away, Seamus cuffs Neville on the shoulder. “It’ll do that for a time, yeah.”  
  
“Oh. Well, okay then.” Clasping his hands together, Neville rests them on his lap and stares over at Seamus.  
  
Noticing the smaller cut on the  _other_  cheek Neville had gotten yesterday, Seamus frowns. If Neville doesn’t start to contain himself, one of these days he’s going to be hurt too badly for even the best Healer in the world to help him get sorted. “Ya shoulda held your tongue, Longbottom.”   
  
“I had to say it.”  
  
Christ, but Neville can be a stubborn arse sometimes.   
  
“Why’s that?” Seamus demands, a brow cocking.  
  
“You know it helps the others when we do that.”  
  
Yeah, Seamus knows that. It just doesn’t sit well with him when people get themselves hurt trying to rally hope for everyone else.   
  
Especially when it’s Neville.  
  
But he can’t say that sort of thing to Neville, so Seamus tells him in another way.   
  
His hand slips under the hem of Neville’s jumper, fingers brushing against the soft roundness of his belly. Neville sucks in a breath; Seamus can feel Neville do it and he inhales. Seamus inhales oxygen and electricity and promise while Neville shivers. Neville shivers and Seamus gasps, then pounces when he just can’t fucking stand it anymore.   
  
Both hands shove under the jumper, pushing it up as Seamus buries his face in the curve of Neville’s neck, never minding that the bruising about his eye is still tender and Seamus shouldn’t be pressing his cheek so hard against him. He can feel Neville’s hands in his hair, on his neck, moving down his back. But it isn’t enough. Seamus wants to feel more of him. Seamus wants to  _taste_  him.   
  
 _There’s a fucking thought_ , Seamus thinks with a slight moan, face turning so lips can mouth that cord along the line of Neville’s throat. The skin is hot and supple, urging Seamus on. Higher he goes, higher still until lips meet lips and Seamus’ tongue finds its way home, pushing past Neville’s teeth to pull along the so-fucking-soft skin on the inside of Neville’s lower lip. Seamus can hear himself groaning, the sound wet and warbled against Neville’s tongue and teeth and mouth, but he doesn’t give a fuck. Apparently Neville doesn’t either, because there’s suddenly goddamned suction on his tongue. It makes Seamus’ eyes roll back in his head and his hips arch urgently up and against Neville’s.   
  
“God fucking--  _God_ ,” Seamus grunts, his cock beginning to twitch the instant he feels a hardness bump against his. And then suddenly Neville’s hand presses against his trousers, cupping his erection and Seamus thinks it’s a fucking grand day to be a Gryffindor. “F-feels good,” he moans.  
  
Neville nods, all frantic-like, and rubs Seamus so hard that it’s a damned miracle he doesn’t shoot off in his trousers right here and now.   
  
“ _Fuck_.” Panting, Seamus is pretty sure Neville would have echoed the sentiment if he wouldn’t have been otherwise occupied dragging his teeth along Seamus’ jaw. When he feels those teeth digging in, claiming him, Seamus squeezes his eyes shut tightly and wills himself to fucking  _battle_  the heavy sense beginning to take over, the one that says he's two licks away from losing it completely.   
  
It's a worthless battle, the outcome destined from the moment those teeth began to press against and into skin. Moaning so low it's almost as if he's hollow inside, Seamus pulses against his trousers, a wet warmth seeping between the two of them.  
  
"T'anam an  _Diabhal_." Rolling onto his back, Seamus looks up to see the mess he'd made of Neville. Flushed skin, hair mussed, trousers wet in the front, all on account of Seamus. "Sorry," he says, reaching a hand over so fingers can trace a line down Neville's hip.   
  
Shrugging, Neville easily produces his wand and casts a Cleaning Charm, much to Seamus' chagrin. Groaning, Seamus claps a hand to his eyes, though his fingers separate enough so he can peer through the gaps. There's just enough room for him to make out the bemused expression on Neville's face.   
  
"No, you're not."  
  
Seamus has to bite down hard on his lower lip to keep from giving Neville the satisfaction of laughter. But, really, Neville's absolutely right. Seamus isn't sorry.   
  
He isn't sorry one fucking bit.  
  


~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~

  
Neville’s been missing for two days. Two long, horrid days.  
  
In the space of two days, Seamus has gotten himself right fucked up. Just when the colour around his eye had started to fade from black and purple into yellow and blue, he’d gone and hacked off  _both_  Carrows, earning himself another black eye and plenty of cuts and bruises on the rest of his face. Honestly, Seamus is so swollen that he barely recognises himself in the sodding mirror.   
  
It isn’t that he’d gone and raised the Carrow’s cockles on purpose.   
  
Only maybe he did.  
  
With Neville missing, now Seamus is the one the others look to and so he will do everything in his power to give them hope, just like Neville had taught him.   
  
This is why he’s now running through a corridor on the seventh floor, holding an older, but still illegal, copy of  _The Quibbler_  high above his head, Crabbe and Goyle lumbering behind him.  
  
Spying the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, Seamus resists the urge to whoop in lieu of focussing quite exactly on his need for a safe place to hide from Crabbe and Goyle. He makes the three passes before either boy can get within twenty yards of him and a rickety door, like something he might see on an old ship, appears. Seamus has opened and shut it before either Slytherin could probably work out what happened. With a happy sigh, he presses his back against it.  
  
A beat, and then something  _does_  give him cause to whoop: in the centre of the room is Neville, sitting at a small table set beneath a Gryffindor flag.  
  
“Cor, Neville, I thought ya were fucking dead!” Seamus yells, practically tripping over his own two feet in his haste to get to Neville. Hauling Neville upright, Seamus holds on bloody tight, nearly damned overwhelmed by the realisation that he’d actually thought that.  
  
“Sorry ‘bout that,” Neville returns, the words muffled against Seamus’ shoulder. When Seamus finally lets go, Neville runs a hand through his unruly hair. “I thought it was time. Nabbing Gran didn’t do what they wanted and I just…I figured I ought to disappear before they killed me or sent me to Azkaban.”  
  
A shudder runs through Seamus. Neville isn’t exaggerating, not one bit. “Good thinking, that.” Wagging a finger, he adds, “But don’t you think ya coulda mentioned a bit of this disappearin’ act plan ta me?”  
  
Gripping the edge of the table, Neville leans forward, his chin dropping to his chest. A heavy silence falls between them, so heavy that Seamus begins to feel lost.   
  
“Neville?”  
  
When Neville finally lifts his head back up, Seamus is taken aback by the resolve and determination there.  
  
“I couldn’t. It wasn’t exactly planned. They were chasing me – I wouldn’t use the Cruciatus Curse on Lavender and Michael – and I needed a hideout. I think we’re all going to be needing a hideout soon.”  
  
“What’ve you been doin’ for food?” Seamus asks. From previous experience (namely, pissing about during Christmas hols with Dean while avoiding professors), Seamus knew the Room of Requirement was crap at providing food and drink. He definitely would have heard if Neville had been seen skulking about the castle at night trying to get food.  
  
“I’ll tell you all about it,” Neville promises.   
  
“After the tour?” Seamus grins; there isn’t much to require a tour, but he’ll take a tour nonetheless. If anything, it’ll take their minds off of their predicament for a time.  
  
“After the tour,” Neville confirms with a smile. It’s the best damned thing Seamus has seen all day.  
  


~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~

  
  
Two days pass since Seamus first came to the Room of Requirement. In the space of those two days, he and Neville have done a whole hell of a lot of speculating as to what was going on with Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Neville kept insisting Harry would come back, though Seamus thought the return would be later than Neville would like to believe. They talk about family on the outside and what Gran’s getting in to these days. Checking their Dumbledore’s Army coins happens at least twice and hour, as does taking turns popping a head out into the corridor to get a sense of what is or isn’t going on about the castle.  
They go to Hog’s Head Inn once each day for food and news, never staying too long so Aberforth doesn’t raise suspicions.  
  
That morning, Aberforth has news for them: according to an Order of the Phoenix source, Dean Thomas has been staying somewhere safe with relatives of Ron Weasley.   
  
Seamus is so fucking relieved and thrilled that he can’t eat a damned thing. After giving Aberforth thanks, he heads up the steep stairs back to the Room of the Requirement leaving Neville behind to learn any other news Dumbledore’s brother may have for them.  
  
When he ducks back into the still-small room, Seamus throws his head back and laughs like he hasn’t laughed in months. The last he’d heard, Dean had been captured and probably feared dead. Of course, Dean was his best mate and Seamus  _refused_  to believe it, but deep down there was a tiny, niggling little voice whispering ‘what if?’ Now the voice is absofuckinglutely squashed out and Seamus can’t sit still. Seamus has to celebrate, so he requires some music, some crap Muggle song that Dean had made him listen to a million times over, and dances well enough to tire out his mam and all six of her sisters.  
  
“That’s definitely not a waltz,” comes a bemused voice from the passageway.  
  
Seamus pivots toward it, a shit-eating grin on his face.  
  
“It certainly fuckin’ isn’t,” he agrees, then yanks Neville back inside the Room of Requirement.  
  
As he kicks the door shut behind them, Neville lets out a soft noise of protest. “I dunno how to do this dance, Seamus.”  
  
“Ya don’t have ta know anything. Just move.”   
  
Neville hesitates, cocking his head toward Seamus questioningly.  
  
He remembers how much Neville had practiced dancing for the Yule Ball when they’d been in their fourth year. Though he isn’t as clumsy as he’d been when he was younger, Neville still doesn’t have a rhythm for dancing. Seamus can see that plain as day, watching as Neville sways back and forth, most definitely  _not_  with the music. As Neville counts the time, his face screwing up with concentration, Seamus can just see a hint of pink tongue poking out minutely between two plump lips.   
  
That precise moment is when Seamus throws fucking caution  _and_  patience to the wind, taking hold of Neville by the forearms and pinning him up against the nearest wall. Neville “oofs,” then laughes and Seamus shoves his tongue down Neville’s throat. Neville’s teeth scrape over Seamus’ tongue and then there are hands everywhere. Neville’s hands on Seamus’ bum and Seamus’ hands over and then under a jumper and—  
  
“Holy fucking hell, Neville,” Seamus gasps, yanking Neville’s jumper up. “What’s this?”  
  
Startled, Neville’s head bounces off the wall once before his chin falls forward to see what Seamus is going on about. “That’s a- a nipple ring.”  
  
“I  _know_  that! What the fuck’s it doing on you?!” Not that it isn’t seven shades of fucking hot, because it  _was_ , but Seamus is having a hard time processing that Neville Longbottom and hot damned body piercing go together.  
  
Self-consciously, Neville begins to tug his jumper down. “I was bored when I was in here by myself and I just…wanted a change.”  
  
Quicker than Harry Potter on a Snitch, Seamus’ hand darts out, stilling Neville’s. “Don’t. I like it.”  
  
“You do?” Neville looks so hopeful that Seamus would have laughed had he not had a better idea.  
  
“I do,” Seamus confirms, and then dips down to flick his tongue against the ring and Neville’s nipple.  
  
“ _God_ ,” Neville grunts, and the first thought through Seamus’ mind is: there’s no way we’re just friends after all this.  
  
The next thought is: and that’s mighty fuckin’ fine as far as I’m concerned.  
  
When Seamus straightens to look up at Neville, there is this moment of clarity, where everything makes sense and nothing is hazy or uncertain. Neville can feel it, too; Seamus can tell by the tilt of his chin and the light in his eyes. There is a beat, a moment holding up silence like a virtue, and then the two frantically unbutton and pull down and divest every last stitch of clothing they have on, down to the very last sock.   
  
Neville licks his lips, mouth wet and inviting, but before Seamus can move to attack his shoulder blades and arse are pressing back against a wall. Neville’s hands, calloused but not rough, light against Seamus’ thighs. Any thread of control Seamus had been holding onto is now lost, lost as Neville falls to his knees and his mouth curls around the head of Seamus’ cock. It’s a fucking lot all at once. The kiss, the nipple ring, and now this. Seamus is  _seventeen_. He can’t—  
  
“Neville, I can’t--” Seamus moans, fingers tugging on long strands of Neville’s hair.  
  
There’s a faint popping sound as Neville releases his cock, and then suddenly Neville’s chest is pressed against his. “It’s okay.” Neville’s breath is warm against Seamus’ ear, tickling the sensitive lobe. “I want you to.”  
  
“You want me to--?”  
  
There’s a touch on the underside of his cock now, fingertips lightly running along the vein. Then there’s a squeeze to his balls, and Seamus can’t help it if even if he wants to.  
  
With a rough, hoarse shout, Seamus comes, the warm wetness spurting all over Neville’s stomach in long strings.  
  
“Yeah,” Neville gasps, the sound becoming lost when he crushes his mouth to Seamus’. That, plus the hardness against Seamus’ thigh, are excellent fuckin’ signs of what is still to come.  
  


~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~

  
  
Somehow, one by one, members of Dumbledore’s Army began trickling in to the Room of Requirement over the course of the next week. The room expanded as each new witch or wizard arrived, adding more hammocks or appropriate house banners or putting on a  _balcony_. As more and more people came, the prouder Seamus became of Neville. It was clear that everyone looked to him for guidance, much in the way they all had to Harry. What was even better was that Neville fit the role of leader as if it had been tailor-made for him.  
  
After Terry Boot and Anthony Goldstein return from the Hog’s Head with breakfast on Monday morning, everyone grabs a chair and begins to discuss a game plan. Sooner or later the Carrows and the others would suss out where all the students had gone, and Dumbledore’s Army needs a plan of action.  
  
“What’re we going to do, Neville?” Padma Patil asks as Lavender Brown nods her head importantly.   
  
“We can’t just sit here all sodding day!” Michael Corner breaks in, while Terry Boot cries, “Harry, Ron, and Hermione broke into Gringott’s using a dragon and we’re sitting here on our arses doing--”  
  
Just then the old wooden door leading to Aberforth’s pub swings open, the painted image of Ariana Dumbledore looming large in the slats.   
  
Knowing what that means, Seamus stands up, stomping his foot on the ground. “Give the man room! Give the man room! Aberforth needs to talk to him.”  
  
At once no less than five chairs scrape over the stone floor as members of Dumbledore’s Army make way for Neville to get to the passage. Just as Neville passes in front of him, Seamus grabs hold of his wrist for the briefest of moments. “Don’t be long,” he says in a low voice.  
  
Wordlessly, Neville meets his eyes and shakes his head.   
  
Seamus no sooner releases his hold on Neville before the other Gryffindor is gone. Whirling on his heel, Seamus looks good and hard at the assembled DA members. “Break it up! We’ll get back ta runnin’ our gobs when Neville comes back.”  
  
While there is a bit of grumbling and groaning, for the most part everyone disperses. As for Seamus, he heads straight for his hammock, in serious need of a kip. With all the people in the Room of Requirement now, it’s difficult to get more than a few minutes’ worth of sleep, but Seamus takes what he can get.  
  
Getting to sleep in a room full of people means there is to be a lot of tossing and turning, which Seamus does. And just when he feels his eyes begin to grow heavy and his body seems to be weightless in the hammock, a buzz of activity begins to arise.  
  
“Can’t a wizard get a bit of fucking sleep round here?” he snaps, flinging an arm over his eyes.  
  
“HARRY!”   
  
“It’s Potter, it’s POTTER!”  
  
“Ron!”  
  
“Hermione!”  
  
All the voices sound at once. Seamus sits up so quickly that he bashes his head on a low-lying beam, though that doesn’t stop him from joining right in with, “Fucking hell! HARRY!”  
  
Blinking, Seamus stumbles to a nearby chair and climbs on top of it so he can get a good look over the crowd of people. There, at the doorway, stands Neville and Harry Potter. Just behind Harry, still in the passageway, Seamus can make out Ron’s ginger hair and Hermione’s familiarly bush brown locks.  
  
It’s really them.   
  
Just like Neville’s always said, Harry came back.  
  
Now it’s time to get things sorted and settle the fucking score.  
  
As Neville yells for everyone to calm down, pride swells in Seamus’ heart – pride for Dumbledore’s Army, pride for Harry and Ron and Hermione, pride for himself, pride for Hogwarts, pride for what they are all about to do.  
  
Seamus hasn’t a fucking clue how they’re going to go about it, but he does know they’re going to do it together.


End file.
